It's a Three Patch Problem
by Loreyulia
Summary: "You might imagine that a person would resort to self-mutilation only under extreme situations or duress. But once I'd crossed that line the first time, taken that familiar step off the precipice, then almost any reason was a good enough reason, almost any provocation was provocation enough. Cutting was my all-purpose solution, my new drug of choice." (on temporary hiatus).


**It's a Three Patch Problem **

**Chapter One: Quiet the Mind **

_**A/N: I will state this upfront, please do not read this fanfiction if depictions of self harm are a trigger for you. I would be incredibly upset if I inadvertently caused some one emotional distress because of my fanfiction therapy. Only read this story if you can handle the content. Thank you. **_

There was a dull, resounding echo in the flat as Sherlock Holmes closed the door to 221B. The place was dark, illuminated only by the watery, fluorescent lighting from the street lamps outside. Odd shadows danced along the window pane, streaked with rain. It made the whole world glimmer, and sparkle– like some fairy wonderland.

Sherlock pulled off his damp coat, and scarf; hanging them on the hook behind the door, to dry. He dimly registered the moist, clamminess of his skin– vaguely aware that he might catch a cold if he didn't dry off. But that felt like an effort he was not willing to endure right now. He switched on the nearest lamplight, and surveyed the flat.

Even with the warm, ambient glow, everything looked grey and flat. Devoid of any bright, saturated color or rich laughter. No sounds of shifting news papers, or quiet sipping at perfectly brewed cups of tea. A lump, painful and frustrating, wedged its way uncomfortably in his esophagus.

With limbs that felt weighted with cement, Sherlock flicked the light off and headed to his bedroom. He couldn't handle staying in the sitting room right now. Not with out John there to badger him into doing what was best for his health. Ever the worrier, he was– _is_– he had to correct. Just because John no longer lived here, didn't mean he was gone forever. Or so Sherlock optimistically kept reminding himself.

His room was just as dark, and eerily quiet as everything else. It made his skin itch.

Sherlock absently pulled off his expensive dress shoes, and cashmere socks– tossing them into some obscure corner of his bedroom. Next came the tuxedo jacket, though this he hung reverently in his closet– dimly seeing vague shapes and outlines in the dark. He knew every little nuance of this place though. Every minute detail stored in a room inside his Mind Palace– titled _home. _

Though right now, it didn't feel much like home any more. There was a missing element in the chemical makeup, and he was acutely aware of it.

With a distracted tug, he undid the black bowtie, and hung it with the jacket. These items were then settled in the recesses of his closet– unlikely that he'll ever wear them again, unless he was invited to a funeral. He unbuttoned his sleeves, and pushed the white dress shirt up his arms; reveling in the feeling of being less constricted.

It was all worth it though, enduring all of these social anomalies– if only to recall the unadulterated joy John exuded today. Sherlock expected to botch the role of best man, but he seemed to have pulled through; even while solving the most ingenious locked room murder of his career. The thought made him smile, if for only a moment. Still, the heavy, oppressive silence dashed away what small amount of happiness he had conjured.

He knew it would be hard, initially; but was completely unprepared for _this. _Who ever truly prepares themselves for the bitter, and utter loneliness left in the wake of a broken heart? And he hated having to label this melancholy as such, but there it was. Sherlock Holmes, great Consulting Detective, laid low by his bloody, beating heart.

The whole notion had him smiling dark, and cruelly ironic to himself.

"Not much cop, this caring lark," he echoed to no one in particular, knowing full well he still would not trade a single emotion he felt regarding one John Watson, for a thousand locked room cases or the chance to rid himself of Mycroft for good.

Even if he... well, as pedestrian as it was to say, even if he _loved_ John, he could not begrudge the man his happiness. And as much as he wanted to despise her, he could not deny that he cared for Mary, either.

He was stuck in a stalemate of selfishness and selflessness, and loathing every moment.

With a weary, defeated sigh, Sherlock managed his way toward his bedroom door, wanting to wash the product out of his hair, and the lingering scent of _John_ from his skin.

—

When it happened the first time, it was a complete and utter accident.

It started, as practically 72% of things in his life did, with an experiment. An experiment conducted on how sharp the average kitchen knife had to be, to nick bone. Sherlock found out, that it did indeed have to be rather sharp, but easily done. He also found out, that hitting bone with a sharp object made things a bit unstable; and his palm slid forward, and got sliced open because of this rare occasion of witlessness.

To be fair though, his mind had been rather preoccupied in that moment.

John had recently come home from honey-mooning with the missus, and even though he had arrived three days ago, he had not dropped by even once. It left Sherlock in a right, foul temper– his black mood manifesting into obsessive experiment mode.

His skin burned, and tingled all at once; an odd mixture of endorphins and self preservative fear. At the time, he did not stop to admire his handiwork– no, that would come later, when this all got out of hand. For now, Sherlock ambled over to the first aid kit, muttering darkly as he bandaged himself up, rather wonkily.

The thought did not occur to him, until much later, when the sun had sunk below the skyline and he was tossed across the couch, deep within his Mind Palace– how the physical, visceral pain had blotted out the black anger, and sadness that John's absence some times provoked.

—

The second time it happened, it was definitively _not_ an accident.

He slammed the door shut, not caring if he startled Mrs. Hudson or any of the other bloody tenants. Sherlock cursed, low and foul under his breath; angrily ripping off his scarf and coat. He threw them carelessly onto the floor, a small amount of satisfaction roiling through his veins, that he could no longer be chastised for leaving his things about the flat.

The thought left the bitter sweetest ache in his chest. Even if he had always been informed that he indeed, did not possess a heart, he knew otherwise. With painful, acute clarity... Sherlock Holmes knew better.

Otherwise John's declaration of "From now on, I'm avoiding dangerous cases. I'm going to be a Father soon Sherlock," wouldn't burn so much, right in the left side of his chest cavity. He ground his teeth together, already feeling that oppressive, silent weight of being alone in this damn flat they once shared. Back when it was Sherlock and John, against the world.

Not, Sherlock and John, when it's convenient.

And the fact that none of his tea mugs had been used in quite some time, or that the place had gone to shit since John moved out, should not make his throat close tightly, and his nose burn with the effort not to cry in frustration. But it did. And if there was one thing Sherlock hated more than dealing with idiots, it was crying.

Tears solved nothing. They did not fix your problems, they only left you looking ugly and suffering a massive head ache. The only time tears were useful, is when they could get you some thing you wanted.

Sherlock stomped to his room. Even if no one was here to witness him break down, he preferred to do it some where private any way. Besides, the sitting room was taboo these days. He didn't like the way it felt, being the only presence in a room meant for more than just a sulky, Consulting Detective.

He shut his own door with much less force, and stripped effortlessly; snatching up his sleep wear from off the floor. He wrinkled his nose, the smell of his body sweat and pheromones saturated into the fabric. Laundry was a little hard to keep track of, with out some one reminding him of its necessity. He shrugged, slipping on the dingy, stained clothes any way, not left with much choice in the matter.

Limbs feeling heavy, Sherlock settled onto his bed. He did not feel tired, far from it– though he wished for once that he could fall asleep. That he could escape this cold reality that had become the norm, and dream of better days.

If only he were weak enough still to fall back to the siren call of cocaine and heroin. The benign, weightless oblivion seemed like nirvana these days; a vague memory of how _quiet_ it made his titanic mind. But if John found out he was using again, after all these years of sobriety, he might just cut all ties for good. Sherlock wouldn't even blame him either, not when he knew how bad it could get. How deeply it all made his mind plummet into darkness.

No, drugs could not be the answer, not for this... not again.

He needed _some thing_ though, some thing to help him cope. A crutch to lean on, in the face of his heart raging in love drunk chaos. Without consciously being aware of it, he stroked the raised little scar on his palm; the gesture oddly soothing. It had a calming effect, but only because of the memories it pulled to the surface. How the pain had blotted out everything else, even if for only a short while.

It was enough. And that, was when it all clicked into place.

Sherlock stared at the light pink, puckered line; studying its texture, remembering how it healed– slowly but surely. And then he smiled, thinking of all the _possibilities. _

It took him less than a minute to make his decision. Though, in retrospect, what valid argument could he make to himself, not to choose this?

_What if people see them? _I never wear revealing clothes, he reasoned. And why should it matter, what people think if they do? Mycroft and Lestrade would be a problem, if they found out... try to commit me, most likely. Fix what's going on in my funny little head.

_What would John think? You know he won't be happy... _

That thought, almost swayed him. But Sherlock grimaced, knowing full well that he'd be damned if he ever let John find out. Best to keep this little secret, under wraps.

He went to the bathroom, resolved in the matter, and found the scalpel he had left there; recently used to dissect the eyeball of a 33 year old man who suffered from glaucoma. The results had been fascinating.

The dim, fluorescent lighting, made the medical instrument flash dully; high lighting its danger. It was odd, how that thought sent a shiver of anticipation up his spine. Sherlock remembered feeling this way, every time he saw a needle disappear into the giving flesh of the crook of his arm.

The thought of pain was irrelevant, after all– it was kind of the point. Still, it did not stop his fingers from trembling slightly, self preservation and all that. It made the first cut messy, and shallow.

There was a barely noticeable, stinging sensation; before a tiny pinprick of blood, welled up to the surface. It was no worse than a bad papercut, but already Sherlock could feel a small thrill from the pain. Emboldened, he made another line, just above the first; this one deeper– apply more pressure, he catalogued.

It hurt a little more this time, his skin burning and turning an angry red color– red for warning, red for stop. Blood surfaced faster, no longer just a liquid dot; it was one long, perfect line. So precise, so methodical. It made this feel like just another experiment. Sherlock liked experiments, and loved it even more when he needed to collect more data.

Compare notes, so to say.

—

By the time he realized he should stop, because he was feeling slightly light headed and wane– his right fore arm was littered with lines. Some were shallow, the skin there extra sensitive and harder to convince himself to push harder. Other cuts were rather deep, at least two of them possibly requiring some butterfly stitches.

The sink was stained red, blood still dripping from his open wounds.

Sherlock shuddered, his arm the embodiment of fire and confusion. His heart raced, adrenaline pumping through him. It was a decent facsimile for the post case high that would sing through his veins. This was danger, and fear, spiked with adrenaline to make the most potent cocktail.

With mechanical motions, Sherlock found the rubbing alcohol and dabbed away at his wounds. He grit his teeth against the burn, but faintly concluded that this was the best part. The pungent smell of blood and isopropyl.

He then bandaged up the more severe cuts, not bothering with the ones that had already begun to scab over. Though he knew that he would have to be careful with that arm for a few days. No rigorous movements, and he would have to be extra conscious of infection.

Still wired on his endorphin high, Sherlock cleaned up the rest of his mess– not leaving a single trace of what he had done. He felt slightly foolish, because who would ever conclude that blood in the bathrooms of 221b meant Sherlock Holmes was tearing up his own skin with a scalpel? It never heart to be cautious though.

Because this was some thing he wanted, and was surprised to think, needed to revisit. Especially when it helped quiet his mind, and ease his heart ache. It made it hard to focus on anything else, when his skin burned with magnificent pain.

He laid down upon his bed once more, idly stroking the red and white of his fore arm, that was dimly illuminated by cold, distant moonlight. And for the first time in weeks, Sherlock didn't have the time to think about how utterly alone he had become. Not when he had some thing different, some thing _new_ to ponder.

_**E/N: this will probably only have five chapters at the most. So look out for more in the sporadic future, I'm shite at updating. I'd also appreciate reviews, and constructive criticism to help me grow. Cheers! **_


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